The ties that bind inspire my fiction.

Papa’s Hands

His hands carved granite from mountains,
strong from the age of six, when he worked
in quarries, wiped sweat from his brow in
summer, ignored cracks that bled when he
cut stone in the cold winter of northern Spain.

The thrust in New York Harbor of Liberty’s
beacon-hand fired ambition for a life of
plenty through labor and the love of it.
His strong hands built bridges, buildings,
the walls of Congress, hands of an
herculean artist. Every work now an
official monument.

Yet with those hands he brushed my hair
as a child, gathered flaxen strands as if
coaxing clouds into a cup, clasped them
with a silver barrette as if I were a holy
person. With respect. With reverence.